A lie is a spark in a pine forest
as it dances a weave in fir needles.
Bright embers jump in the wind as
they warm the speaker.

And most, quickly, find their end.
Extinguished, small burnt patches.
Cold, dark hollows, black soot,
in distant groves of conversation.

In each patch remains a potential,
when the winds of argument rise
and in heat of a battle stoked,
of a runaway wildfire.

Deep searing heat burning all
as it careers into a forest roof.
Conflagration less, if prior
planned burns completed.